Things in Passing
by 221btardisway
Summary: Maybe it was fate. Maybe it wasn't. It could have just been a coincidence. There was probably a logical reasoning behind it the whole time.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello!** My name is Autumn, and the literature you are hopefully about to enjoy was written by one of my good friends, Georgie. She and I will be writing alternating chapters for the duration of this story. Alas, we do not own 'Sherlock,' or any of the people, places, events seen within. But, to own Benedict Cumberbatch... Anyways! Enjoy! Please leave love and reviews. Inform us of any issues you spot as this is not beta'd as of yet. Ta-ta!

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Maybe it was fate. Maybe it wasn't. It could have just been a coincidence. There was probably a logical reasoning behind it the whole time.

Either way July 19th, 1976 was a very important day.

Oliver was just getting off work. On any other day, he'd head home dutifully to his very pregnant wife. But he was tired. His job was hard. The old Irish pub was only two blocks away. It was too tempting…

Three hours later, four rounds of snooker, and 40 pounds down, Oliver had all but forgotten about Margaret, his wife. She could cope for herself couldn't she? He was a man for god's sake, sometime he just needed to kick back and relax, right?

It was about that same time that a short and stout man walked in with a willowy blonde on his arm. Oliver couldn't help but stare at such an odd pairing, but looked away as soon as he saw the man heading his way. The girl, it seemed, had gotten distracted by a silver painting in the hall.

"This seat taken?" the man said in a heavy Scottish accent. "No," Oliver slurred out, his glass of scotch blurring his vision. "Aye," grumbled the man as he hopped up. "James," he said with an outstretched hand. "Oliver." He slurred back, grabbing James hand fervently and shaking it.

"So ya from the city, or are ya vistin'?" James asked.

"I'm from here, yeah. Some street that I- well- I can't even remember the name of the damned thing!" Oliver barely got out, and both him and James sputtered with laughter and clinked their glasses together.

Ten streets down in Hackney, Margaret was getting impatient.

Her husband was absolutely nowhere to be found, and her contractions were going crazy. They'd been ten minutes apart only an hour ago, and now they were nearly five. She considered calling her doctor, but she knew exactly what he'd say: "Have your husband drive you here as soon as possible."

As soon as possible wouldn't be soon enough if Margaret knew Oliver.

She heard a loud crash from the kitchen and started to run to check on it when another one came. "Ergh um Mycrie was that you honey? I told you not to ergh play with the big boy toys unless um, ugh, your Dad is here." /Which I guess is not that much/ she muttered.

When her young son came rumbling through the kitchen doorway, he jumped up onto the couch excitedly. "Mum, you have to see what I made out of the toys!"

"Yes, yes Mycroft later. I bet it's brilliant though." She sputtered out, distracted from thinking of where Oliver could be.

"But Mum, it's more than brilliant. It's genius!" he said the last word with as much aplomb as his little body could muster, his arms thrown up and his mouth in the biggest smile possible. He twirled around because he saw the light on the top of the ceiling and he almost forgot about his contraption in the kitchen.

"Mycroft! Don't stare at the light like that, it could hurt your eyes. And then you wouldn't have the prettiest eyes in the whole entire world." Margaret's maternal instincts snapped back as the pain subsided, and she reached down to look her son in the eye.

"Mum, I can't possibly have the prettiest eyes in the whole world, and even if I did you wouldn't know 'cause you haven't met every person in the whole world." Mycroft said matter-factly. His fifth birthday was coming up, but he would be starting his second year at primary school in two weeks.

"But I know that your eyes are the prettiest. It's just something that mums know, and little boys don't…" she grinned at him.

"What if baby has the prettiest eyes in the world?"

"No one could ever have eyes prettier than yours, okay Mycrie?" he nodded at her and she would have hugged him if another contraction hadn't just hit. She closed her eyes for a second and her son looked at her with a mixture of confusion and worry.

"Mum, you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I just need to find out where Dad is…" she spit out, trying to keep the pain out of her voice.

"Oh…" with that Mycroft spun around and went back into the kitchen. He was never one to stick around when things got to emotional, even at five years old his coldness was already forming.

Margaret shook her head and sat down, holding on the armrest until the pain finally left. She tried to make a list of his after-work hangouts. There was the old lumber yard by the river where all the old men came to complain about their wives and kids. Down the street was a dark pizza parlor where all the waitresses wore tight tops. There was also two different pubs she remembered. 'If he's at a pub gettin' drunk, I swear, I will kill him." Margaret said shaking her head.

Of all the days to slump off and have a couple, today was not the day.

Halfway through a wild and crazy story about some distant cousin who had fallen off a train and ended up in an old village in Wales, James was having a good time. He and Oliver had hit it off. They were watching two men go at it in a drunken rumble in the streets, and humming along to a drinking song that a group of middle aged men were shouting across the tables. It had been a good night for both, and it was nearing eight o'clock when James finally neared the ending of his hour long story.

"So anyways, it turns out that the man he was talkin' to was actually not a man at all, he was a woman!" James said with arms out. "He had lady parts and he had dresses in his closet and all that. He was so surrised he nearly pissed himself." Oliver laughed heartily, the alcohol making him think it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

"What's this guys name again?" Oliver asked, barely remembering James name.

"Cousin Ashley, but everyone thought he was a girl on paper!" James chuckled.

"That's a bugger of a name if I ever heard one."

"Yep, it was. We always called him by his family name to his face so he wouldn't get mad. Man, I still remember callin' him Ashley once… His ears got so red it made his ginger hair look blonde!" Both men laughed.

"What was his family name?" Oliver asked, trying to keep the conversation going. He was starting to get sleepy, and the alcohol was just making him confused.

"Argh, it was even worse than his first one! 'Sherlock' we called him, yep you heard me, Sherlock! Idn't that the funniest name you ever heard?"

Oliver didn't exactly agree. It stuck him as something special. "Sherlock." It sounded almost like his mum's name Sherlie, but he could imagine a little boy holding that name with dignity.

"You know I better get home sooner or later. My wife is expectin' a child, and I should probably check in on her."

'Ah congratulations then! Is it a boy or girl?" James asked.

"Well we're hoping for a girl. I already got a little son back home. You and your wife got any?" He gestured to the blonde who was in an intense conversation with another tall blonde whilst two grumpy men watched them in awe. They looked almost to be in love with the sight of them.

James shook his head and smiled sheepishly. "She idn't my wife, but I hope she will be. I just haven't got the balls to do it yet!" The two sat in silence for a while. They watched a man and a woman next to them argue loudly over the price of drinks. Over the counter two patrons were waging who would win. Across the pub a man was bragging loudly over his win in snooker.

"I always wanted a son." James admitted quietly after a few minutes.

"Yeah? Well I'd offer you mine if my wife weren't so taken with him…" Oliver said ruefully.

"You don't enjoy it? Bein' able to teach your son the way of nature, bein' able to bring him to a football game and talk to him 'bout the players?"

"I would if he was interested in the least in any of that! He's five and he's already reading better than I do! He's a case I tell you. I keep on tellin' Maggie, you better be ready for when he's gonna land in some institution somewhere. She don't listen though. Says he's her 'little angel'" Oliver spit out, almost choking on his drink. "She don't ever talk to me no more, just that damn little boy. It ain't right!"

James was nodding sympathetically. "You know Joanne's got a cat she's so obsessed with, I'm this close to shuttin' it out. But you know I love her, I love her. And you love Maggie, so what we to do? Yeh know…"

Oliver just nodded.

"Mum, I don't know what to do." Margaret almost cried into the telephone. Her contractions were down to every three minutes and Oliver was nowhere in sight.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

"I'm havin' the baby mum, and I can't find Ollie anywhere. And Mycroft is going crazy in the kitchen, he won't stop screaming about some broken toy. I don't know, but I need help Mum."

"Okay, you wait right there, I'll be over in just a sec'."

And she was. In less than five minutes, Jane Turner came into the little flat in Hackney, took one look around, and knew exactly what to do.

"Mum!" Margaret hugged her mother with a grin. She felt safe now. Jane broke out of the hug as fast as possible. "Okay, we got no time to find a car for the hospital. Instead we're gonna deliver the babe hear. And don't complain," she held her hand up when Margaret started to protest. "This is the only thing possible. It's not my fault you married that stupid man." With that, she walked over to her daughter's bedroom to prepare the bed. Margaret shut her eyes, partly from the pain in her stomach, partly from the pulling urge she was getting to just slap her mother.

"Maggie, come! We have a baby to deliver."

Back in the pub, James and Oliver had just got done playing a round of darts. Oliver had won, naturally. James could barely even throw it high enough to hit the board, and Oliver easily dominated. It was around that time that James' girl walked over.

"Hello." She said quietly at him. She was much more understated than her larger than life husband. "Joanne this is my mate Oliver," James paused and turned to Oliver, "that's yer name right? Oliver? Oscar? Omar-" James stopped talking right then, losing his train of thought in his drunkenness. "It don't matter either way, anyway this is Joanne." Oliver nodded at her.

"Look, James I gotta be goin'. My wife's bothered already probably. She's always bothered." Oliver muttered.

"Okay friend! You go to that wife of yers. He's got a son, Joanne, just like I always wanted. And he got a daughter on the way!" Joanne nodded and smiled at Oliver.

"Well good luck on the daughter Oliver. Girls can be handful!" Joanne smiled warmly at him.

Oliver mumble something about how they couldn't possibly be worse than boys, and stumbled out of the bar. His tiredness was starting to kick in, and he wanted to get home.

Mr. Waters waved to him from the bakery and he waved back, and while passing Rose Mcgovern's house she came out to chat to him for a while, but he dismissed her as politely as he could. Halfway to Hackney he met a man selling packets of a white powder, and though on any other day he might have been interested, today was not that day.

When he finally reached their street, he decided to stop for a fag or two at Tesco's. He leaned up against the old alley wall to try to stabilize him as he smoked. He started to think about that woman at the bar. She was beautiful. Long blonde hair, the most beautiful face he'd ever seen. She also had the prettiest hazel eyes. While other people chattered about how pretty green eyes wore, Oliver never did. He appreciated the browns and the hazels, the girls who could blend in but stand out if needed. It was something special in that.

Margaret had the brightest green eyes imaginable. It was the first thing he noticed about her. Her long, curly brown hair had attracted many a man throughout the years. But Oliver wasn't attracted to her hair or her eyes, like so many of her suitors were. In fact, Oliver wasn't that attracted to her at all. He preferred blondes, and when they met they were only seventeen, which is hardly a time for boys to appreciate girls for more than their looks.

Oliver shook his head and snapped out of his memories. He tossed the cigarette into the alley, and walked the rest of the streets to his little building. They lived in the first little brown door by the alley and across from the pawn shop. Hopping up the steps, Oliver opened up the door and instantly knew something was off. Mycroft sat on the couch holding his ears to his head as tightly as he could.

"Mycroft, what's wrong?" Oliver got out, fighting back slurs. His son could always figure out when he was drunk, and the last thing Margaret needed was more ammunition to get mad at him.

Da'! Mum she's in there! She's having the baby!" Mycroft sputtered out.

"What?" Oliver almost shouted as he hurried into the bedroom.

The scene he opened to looked almost like a horror movie. The bed was covered in what looked like blood, and his wife's night gown was soaked in the same blood. She lay sweaty on their bed, while Jane stood holding her hand.

"Ollie!" Margaret said, her eyes brightening up. If he'd walked in any earlier she would have been livid, but now holding the most wonderful thing in the world, she couldn't bother to be mad.

"You had the baby? Without me?" Oliver sputtered out, still in shock.

"Well you weren't really available were you now?" Jane spat out.

"Hey don't you go at it right now you two! Ollie you come over here and hold your son!" Margaret grinned at him as he looked even more shocked.

"S-son?" He couldn't believe it. They'd thought for long that it'd had to be a girl. "But that old woman in Chinatown said she knew it was a girl?" Oliver said as he walked to the the other side of the bed, avoiding his mother-in-law's icy stare.

"Well she was wrong I guess! I don't care. He's perfect anyways!" She smiled at her son as he handed him to her husband.

As Oliver saw his son's eyes for the first time, his earlier thoughts in the bar subsided. He realized this was his second chance- his second chance to make everything alright. He'd bring his boy to the Chelsea match every week. They would go fishing up North once he got old enough. And he would help him pick out a suit for winter formal when he found a good girl. He would be everything his other boy couldn't be. He would be his perfect son.

He made a small promise to his small boy right then, a silent promise. As his wife and mother-in-law looked on, he looked into his son's eyes and promised to give him the best life possible. He wouldn't make his mistakes, he wouldn't be in a job he hated or living in a tiny flat with two kids and a wife by age 25. He'd make something of himself. He leaned down and kissed the boy's face, so filled with joy he could barely stand it.

"Now we gotta make a choice Ollie. What are we gonna name that little bug?" Margaret asked.

"Wouldn't Robert be so nice Maggie? Name him after Father, he would be so pleased you know!" Jane answered before Oliver ever had the chance.

"Yeah but Robert mum? That's such an old name. It's a name for people getting out of the war mum, for sixty year old men like Dad. I don't I was thinking something like Camer-"

"Sherlock," Oliver interrupted before she could finish. "How about Sherlock? Doesn't that have a ring to it? Sherlock Holmes, son of Oliver and Margaret…"

Jane looked down at Margaret with a look full of disdain, but she wasn't paying attention. She was staring up at her husband so confused and happy at how he was acting. The last time, he never cracked a real smile. He'd almost acted like he didn't want to be there. But now… Now his face was bright enough to light the room up. He was grinning from ear to ear, and when he said Sherlock, he sounded so sure.

"Yeah, it does. Sherlock… Yeah. That's it. That's what we'll call him."

Oliver looked down and grinned for a moment and then was drawn back to the baby in his arms. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes barely more than a squint, and let out a loud cry and stretched his arms out of the little pink blanket he was wrapped up in, and with that everybody in the house was in love with him. Margaret let out an "Aww." And Jane leaned forward, smiling. Out in the den, Mycroft took his hands off his ears, and looked into the doorway. He had never liked children crying, but something about how loud and how strong that cry was just drew Mycroft into the room. He joined him Gran and Father standing and he grabbed onto his mom's hand.

And for one night, they just stood around smiling and laughing. Everytime Sherlock would move or even whimper, they would all be filled with even more love. For that one night, the family never meant to be happy, were so happy they could barely contain it.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Things in Passing"

"Mycie! Gimme that back!"

Sherlock Holmes had had a wonderful third birthday. He'd gotten many presents from his mother and father and was currently trying to wrest his favorite acquisition, a tin Hindenbergh figurine his father had given him, from the meaty hands of his older brother. Sherlock jumped up and down in front of him, dancing about on his toes. Mycroft was 'flying' the toy around over Sherlock's head and making engine noises.

"Mycie, please?" Sherlock stopped hopping and looked up at his brother who was standing on the couch. Mycroft stopped, zeppelin toy held still in the air, and met his little brother's famous puppy dog stare. Sherlock's cerulean eyes twinkled. His pink lips were pouting. Mycroft sighed and stepped off of the couch.

"Here ya go. I was just messing around." Mycroft ruffled Sherlock's hair and made his way into the kitchen for a snack cake.

"Thanks, Mycie!" Sherlock called after his brother and skipped upstairs to his room, flying his zeppelin at arms length the whole way. When Sherlock reached his bedroom he was surprised to find his father set on his bed with his head held in his hands.

"Father?" Sherlock queried as he came to an abrupt halt at his doorway. His father looked up.

"Hello, Sherlock, come here. Did you have a nice birthday?" Sherlock walked warily over to his father and stood awkwardly in front of him. Sherlock nodded and began to rock back and forth on unsteady footing and twiddle with the loose pieces on his zeppelin. Oliver Holmes reached an arm out and swept his youngest and favorite son into his lap.

"That's good son, real good. Look, I have something kinda sad to tell you. It's about your mother and I. Things aren't as good for us we would like and - oh, sod it all to hell. Sherlock, son I can't stay here anymore. I'm going to move into a flat somewhere near by so I'll still be able to see you and Mycroft, but I can't stay here. Do you understand?" Oliver craned his neck and shifted Sherlock around in his arms in order to make eye contact. Sherlock met his eyes and nodded but soon turned his head when tears began leaking from his eyes, Oliver said nothing but squished his son closer to his chest and cried silently with a few minutes had passed Oliver stood and swung his son onto his hip.

"Let's go have one last look at the stars tonite, eh?" Sherlock shook his head 'no' and wiggled in ask to be set down.

"Will you sleep with me tonight, Father?" Sherlock requested tearily. Sherlock climbed into his twin bed and buried himself under the flannel sheet and comforters. There was a moment of hesitation in which Oliver Holmes looked down at his son, his 'second chance,' his life and his whole heart. He looked at that tiny bundle that had grown and learned so much in the last three years. Sherlock had been a joy since he was born. Always ready to make people laugh, to attempt to solve their problems with humor or just to shift their attention to himself for a moment of relief. Oliver had been pleased to find out that his son was every bit as intelligent as Mycroft, but ten times as warm and and ten times as accepting of the influence of his father. Mycroft had always been coddled by Margaret and therefore was quite the 'mama's boy.' A disappointing example of the son he could have raised. But Sherlock was different, the best of both worlds. Finally, Oliver responded to his youngest son.

"Budge over then."

When the sun came through the draperies and awoke him, Sherlock was filled with a sense of warmth and love at being cradled in his fathers arms. But then he remembered the night before and it felt as though a heavy stone had settled with a 'thud' into his belly. His father was leaving him. About this time his father grumbled and attempted to roll over. Sherlock shoved back at his father a little and sat up on his knees, thinking. What should I do? Just then his father groaned again and a thought hit Sherlock. Don't wake him! If he's not awake he can't leave! Sherlock snuggled back down and lay there, stiff and wide eyed, well into the morning. Until a loud bang fell upon his bedroom door and jolted the both of them to attention. Sherlocks father sat straight up and proceeded to get tangled in the bed sheets and fall over onto the floor. Sherlock leapt again to his knees on the bed. His head whipped quickly from his father on the floor to his bedroom door. His mother burst in and began screeching at his father.

"Oliver Holmes, you get your no good arse out of this house! You said you were leaving and I expect you to do so! Promptly! So just go!" Margaret Holmes swept out of the room and so did any remaining warmth or hope that his father would change his mind. Oliver Holmes cleared himself of the sheets and stood.

He looked down at Sherlock and said, "I'm sorry, son," and left the room behind Sherlock's mother.

"NO! Father please don't leave me! You can't! I start preschool in a week!" Sherlock launched himself out of his bedroom after his father pleading loudly the whole time. Oliver Holmes had set his jaw and pretended not to hear the high pitched voice begging him from somewhere near his right knee. Sherlock was following his father around the house as he grabbed bags and stuffed them into a large cab outside. Oliver had not replied in almost an hour and still Sherlock pleaded with wounding persistency. His small voice was becoming hoarse and feeble.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, but I must. One day you'll understand." Oliver said wearily as he shoved the last bag of his belongings into the cab. Oliver slammed the door and walked around the car to face Sherlock.

"C'mere," Oliver grabbed his distraught son and scooped him once again into his arms. "I wish I didn't have to, I do, but it's time for you to be a big boy now. A big, strong, smart boy. Remember Sherlock, I love you, more than anything in this world. Do you understand?" He once again made brief eye contact with his son before Sherlock turned away to hide his tears.

"Please don't go." Sherlock said finally. Oliver Holmes sighed and set Sherlock on his feet closer to the house. He shook his head as he patted his son on the shoulder and climbed into the cab. He closed the door without looking at his son again and signaled to the driver to leave. Sherlock stood there for a moment and watched his father ride away from him. Sherlock then took off running after him down the street.

"Father! Father wait! I want to look at the stars! Who's going to tell me about the sun? I don't know!" Sherlock tiny feet trampled the ground at a rate faster than the rest of his body could keep up with and he tumbled to the ground and into a puddle. Now soaking wet and muddy, Sherlock sat in the puddle in the middle of the street and sobbed.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mr. Holmes, can you tell me any part of what I just said?" Mrs. Gilman's voice screeched over Sherlock's mind mid-thought, and he flicked his head to her in annoyance.

"Well I can't say that I was paying attention, considering the impossible decibel of your voice at this early hour. But it's fairly simple to see that of course everything is made from tiny particles, with a positive and negative charge equal in many, though not in some, which I deduce that from the lack of the word "isotope" on the blackboard you will not be actually teaching my brain anything other than the insultingly simple lesson that every piece of matter is made out of more matter. Does that adequately answer your question, or must you continue to keep me from more pressing matters?"

Mrs. Gilman stared at Sherlock with impenetrable eyes.

Sherlock stared at Mrs. Gilman with a bored look on his face.

Twelve young boys in year 4 didn't know whether to sneer or cheer.

Mrs. Gilman sighed, and started slowly making her way to Sherlock's desk. "Mr. Holmes, at Yaughternill Down house School for Boys, we do not allow students to talk back to teachers in such a way. I don't know whether _public _schools usually allow such behavior, but I will assure you that you may not and will not speak in that manner. Considering that you are new, and you are obviously not _bred _in the same way in which your fellow classmates were, I understand a slipup. But I will accept no more attitude from you, you understand?" Mrs. Gilman reached Sherlock's desk and snapped the front of his unopened text book with her ruler.

Sherlock was all talk and no game. He had never spoken that way to people of supposed authority; he had only attempted it on his first adult a week ago. Considering that was his newly hired Nanny, and she could barely speak English through her think Italian accent, he doubted greatly if she had understand a single part of it. He quickly thought of all the possible ways to get out… Smile and attempt a sarcastic remark? Negative, he could never be sincere enough about it. Roll his eyes and act like the villains on those spy movies Mycroft's always watching? No, he could never act badly enough.

So instead, Sherlock Holmes accepted defeat. He nodded and mumbled "Yes ma'am." as fast as possible, hoping none of his classmates would hear his acknowledgement. He didn't speak fast enough though, because three of the boys in his row snorted as loud as possible, but stopped with a stern look for Mrs. Gilman.

"Yes ma'am? Is that you wussies out in public school call ya instructors?" spouted the boy next to him.

"Do they even have instructors where he's from, or do they just give ya the books and some parchment?" a curly haired boy mocked from the first row.

"Do you even have enough for parchment, or did you have to share?" another boy added in to the flurries of sneers and nasty giggles. As soon as Mrs. Gilman finally got up to the front of the class, she silenced them swiftly. Apparently Sherlock wasn't the only one who was all game and no talk.

As soon as class had ended, Sherlock bounded up and used his height and his slight chubbiness to push past the rest of the boys to the door of the classroom, and instead of turning left with the rest of the children, he decided to side-step them all and right. He was going to have to walk completely around the school to get to where his driver would pick him up, but he decided it was better than taking the rest of insults from his fellow students. He trotted out the back door steps and turned around the school corner to see a boy his age walking the same route around the school. _That's strange, no one from Yaughternill would ever walk out this way, _Sherlock thought initially, but noticed his wrinkled and slightly stained trousers, and his two-sizes-too-big trainers and thought of the most possible solution. He was avoiding the rich brats just like Sherlock was.

Stepping on a large twig, Sherlock quickly alerted the boy of his presence. He quickly turned around and the two boys came face to face. Sherlock, almost 4 inches taller, flit his eyes down to the blonde boy's face. "Wh-Why are you following me?"

"I'm not following you." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

"Well, why are you walking all the way out here? Why didn't you just walk through the school?" the boy's words were quavering as he expected a fight from the well-dressed boy in front of him.

"I didn't walk through the school for the same reason you and your trousers didn't walk through the school." Sherlock said coolly.

The boy nodded his head and feeling less scared he attempted a smile. Sherlock didn't. He felt silly showing those kinds of emotions to people who were no better than himself. The boy turned and started to walk with Sherlock to the other end of the school.

"So, uh, what's your name?"

"Sherlock." The boy looked up at him confused, but Sherlock was oblivious to it.

"And yours?"

"Um, I'm Timothy." Sherlock nodded back.

The two continued in silence the rest of the way up to the school-front, Sherlock comfortably, the boy, awkwardly. It was only when Sherlock saw his new driver's black Rolls Royce did he speak up and bid the blonde boy adieu.

"Bye Timothy." Sherlock said loudly, but not excitedly. He walked swiftly to the back passenger seat and got in. The car drove off, almost instantly, the driver annoyed at having to wait for so long. The boy watched the dirt settle.

"Hey John!" the boy looked up to see a little grey car right in front of him. His face broke out in excitement when he saw who was driving.

"Dad!" John bounded over to the passenger seat and jumped up to hug his dad. "I thought you said your training started today?"

"Well I asked them if I could make an exception to see ya after yer big first day at tha new school!" his dad sputtered in his heavy Scottish accent. He reached out and hugged his son again trying to hold on as long as possible.

John sat down and buckled up, but his dad held his hand out and turned to him. "Why did that boy call ya Timothy? Do you already got some nickname after the first day of school?" he laughed, and ruffled his son's hair.

"Um, yeah just a joke Da'. He's a really funny lad."

"Oh yeah? Is his name Timothy but ya call him John?" he laughed again.

"Um yeah his name is Timothy. It's just this big joke." John laughed lightly, and looked worriedly at his dad staring out into space. "…Da'?"

He looked up at him alert, and then smiled. "Yeah, yeah I'm good. Just thinking of what a terrible name that is Timothy. Anyways, ya buckled? Good. We still gotta get ya sister from down the street."

The little grey car drove off onto the overcast road as rain started to hit the windows with aplomb. John looked out the window and watched as little droplets raced others the bottom right of the window. His dad was too busy singing along to a song on the tape to notice John's pensiveness, and he was singing too loudly to hear the word his son was saying. The rain started to hit harder, with unforgiving thuds on the glass. John relished the noise did to the word. There was something about rain that made interesting names even cooler. And this name was more than just interesting on the surface. As John repeated it, he thought of all the dots connecting in his head. The dark curly hair, his voice which almost resembled the people that lived in his tiny section of London, where everyone worked all day, and drank all night, and his air of reclusiveness. It all sounded all too familiar. It was all too familiar. It was a story his dad told him many a night as a bedtime tale. It was the night his mum had found out she was expecting him, his father's favorite night of his life, or at least that's what he told John.

As much as he enjoyed his dad's joyful recollection of every little detail from that night, his favorite part was always a seemingly unimportant bit. A mysterious man who kept his dad company for most of that night, until his mum had announced to him that she was pregnant, was always described as quiet, dark hair, and tall, who had listened to John's dad famous story about his cousin ending up in an old Welsh village, and even seemed to take an interest in the cousin's name.

The name that his dad always choked out with laughter when he told the story.

The name that his little sister would giggle at.

The name that John was repeating to himself.

"Sherlock."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

School never really got easier for Sherlock Holmes. He saw Timothy in the hallways from time to time, ducking underneath the much taller boys who would in turn shout abuse after him.

Sherlock had grown taller than the boys in his year, despite his younger age, and they, for the most part, left him alone. It was really his teachers that dogged him the most, because, by his ninth year, he was already more intelligent than eighty percent of them, and enjoyed displaying that knowledge publicly. In fact, his failure to use discretion when in the class room is what brought Sherlock to the deans office for a fifth time this term.

Sherlock sat in the hard leather upholstered chair in front of Dean Underhill. He sat with his left hand under his chin, bored. Sherlock could hear the vague wah wah wahwah of the deans voice as it thundered through another monologue on keeping his 'goddamned mouth shut sometimes.'

Sherlock's eyes flitted around the room, landing on the pile of books in the corner and the pictures of the Dean and a pretty blonde woman on the mahogany shelf behind the now frothing at the mouth Mr. Underhill. _Was married. Frames are dusty and unkempt. She left him, though he still wears a wedding band, but he holds on minutely. Not because he wants to, because it is what's acceptable. Book titles show that he has moderate to manic interest in the military. Correction, the disciplinary methods of the military._

"Sherlock, you've given me no choice but to expel you. I'm going to have to call your mother now." Mr. Underhill said his voice finally falling down to its natural base. He sounded a bit apologetic.

"No, please don't." Sherlock said dryly. He let his hand slip from under his chin as he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms of across his chest. He looked up at the dean, expectantly.

"Sherlock," Underhill sighed and closed his eyes. " get out." the deans finger rose to point at his office door. "I'll page you down when your mother arrives."

Sherlock nodded and silently exited the deans office. He chuckled humorlessly to himself as he made his way to the front room of the school. No point in going back to class. The front room was fashioned like a nineteenth century drawing room. Lots of burgundies and golds. More mahogany shelves, wing backed arm chairs, and leather bound books. Sherlock found a seat in a far corner mostly obscured by shadow and let his mind wander.

* * *

After the hour long lecture given to him by his mother followed by a three hour long lecture given to him by Mycroft, Sherlock was tired of hearing people talk. Matter of fact, he wouldn't mind so much if no one at his house ever spoke again. He wasn't so worried about his mother, but the look in Mycroft's eyes as he talked about how much of a disappointment he was brought moisture to his eyes. He was only ten!But Mycroft didn't understand. Mycroft's teachers always loved him. Mycroft didn't understand that the boys at school were mean to him sometimes. They called him a brainer and hit him when he said anything in his own defense. Sherlock continually told himself that he would ignore the boys. For Mycroft. He would withstand more bullying before retorting. He would bite his lips before he spoke out of turn in class. Sherlock had sworn to Mycroft that he was sorry and when Mycroft had left his bedroom he allowed the tears to fall down his face.

Sherlock spent two days in his bedroom. He only came out to use the bathroom and pick at the food his mother put in front of him. He spoke to no one. Finally, over supper on the third day, Sherlocks mother broke the icy silence that had fallen over the Holmes household since Sherlock had been expelled.

"You're going to be homeschooled, Sherlock." his mother spoke conversationally. Like maybe Sherlock would be pleased. Sherlock nodded and went back to herding his green beans into groups on his plate. "Also, Mycroft has an announcement to make." There was a scrape of metal on flatware as Mycroft dropped his fork onto the table. He stood and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft spoke. " Thank you, Mummy. Sherlock, what I want to tell you may come as a shock. I want you to know that I will miss you terribly but my schooling is forcing me to -"

"You're leaving." Sherlocks eyes stayed glued onto his plate, hand still milling the beans about in circles.

"Yes, " Mycrofts gaze too fell on Sherlocks plate. " I will return, however, for Christmas and things. Your birthday." Mycroft added with an indulgent smile. Sherlock did not look up. Instead he replied with a,

"Brilliant, Mycroft, really. Mummy can I be excused?" Before Mrs. Holmes could reply fully Sherlcok had shoved his chair out from under the dining table and stalked loudly to the stairs.

"Well, that went well." Mycroft sighed as he sank back into his chair. "I'll go talk to him after he's cooled down a bit."

After dinner Mycroft went upstairs to his study. He passed Sherlocks bedroom and did his best to ignore the quiet sobs coming from behind the door. He sighed as he sat down behind his desk. Some letters to be written to this and that official would keep him busy long enough for Sherlock to calm down. Time passed quickly for Mycroft and he didn't realize it had been almost two hours since he began. He signed the last document and made his way towards Sherlocks bedroom once more. He knocked tentatively, "Sherlock, do you mind if I come in?" he swung the door open gently to find his little brother lying face up in his bed. He had his hands tucked under his head as he stared up at the periodic table poster he had plastered to his ceiling.

"It seems you've already done so, wouldn't it?" Sherlock said quietly but with no less sarcasm than was meant.

"I wanted to apologize for earlier this evening. I understand that your taking this hard, but can you tell me why?" Mycroft sat down on the side of Sherlocks bed, leaning towards him, eyes fixed on him with that Holmesian stare.

Sherlock huffed and stirred restlessly, finally finding comfort on his side , facing Mycroft and with his head propped up on his hand. Still Sherlock did not meet his brothers gaze as he began to speak. "They're rude to me. They call me names and punch my stomach when I try to defend myself. They say I'm a nerd, and an 'arrogant prat' who only gets into school because Mummy gets paid lots of money from Fathers family."

Mycroft nodded. He'd figured as much.  
"Sherlock, do you want to know something? Something I've never told another person?" Sherlocks eyes finally rose to Mycrofts face. " The boys at school used to tease me as well. They called me a nerd and a geek, but they also called me a flamer. They told me I was gay and there was nothing I could do about it. Do you want to know something else? They were right." Mycroft smiled softly at Sherlocks scandalized gasp.

"About...about everything?" Sherlock pushed.

"Mmhhm. All of it. And here's something else. It doesn't bother me. Being a nerd is a good thing. It means you're smarter than they are. And being gay is ok too. So dont you feel insulted over the things they tell you you are. Feel complimented. It may be hard at times but feel special because they take time out of their lives to say something to you. They tease you because they feel threatened. They feel less than ok about themselves compared to you and that's good. Yes?" Mycroft supportively shook Sherlocks shoulder when he was done talking and granted him with a wide smile when Sherlock agreed.

"Now, let's go see if we can scrounge up some cake and tea, hmm?" Sherlock nodded and they both exited the bedroom, only to have Sherlock stop and turn to his brother in this hallway.

"I'm going to miss you, Myce." he stepped forward quickly and wrapped his arms around his brothers waist in a hug.

Mycroft's hands fell to his brothers back where they patted soothingly as he replied, " and I you, little brother." Mycroft pulled back marginally and ruffled his brothers shaggy mop of black curls.  
"Race you to the kitchen?" Sherlock queried.  
"You'll never beat me!" Mycroft called as he tore down the stairs ahead of Sherlock who called after him.  
"Myce, no fair! You didn't even count!"

* * *

A/N:

Alright guys, there's another one down. In case youre confused about the timing of this story it's going to be blips in time for a while. Let us know if somethingtab out thestory is grating your cheese or over cooking your grits. Also let us know if you love it! Reviews are right up there with Bens new Radio Times photographs!

Lots of Love,

Autumn & G


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